


Terror The Human Form Divine

by amberfox17



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Dark, Consent Issues, Creepy, Dom/sub Undertones, Knives, M/M, Mild Painplay, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Serial Killers, Sex in a Car, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to see you naked,” Tom says, eyes like black holes in the gloom of the car, backlit by the neon dash. “Can I see you naked, Chris?”<br/>Hiddlesworth porn with serial killer Tom and 21-year-old hooker Chris, inspired by the Jaguar advert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter was originally a porn challenge fill, but since it developed a sequel, I'm reposting as a standalone fic. Skip on to chapter 2 if you've already read the original fill!  
> 

_Cruelty has a Human Heart_

_And Jealousy a Human Face_

_Terror the Human Form Divine_

_And Secrecy, the Human Dress_

 

It’s a fucking cold night, and Chris shifts his weight from one leg to the other, wishing he was tucked up in bed or, at least, sitting in the damn car while having this conversation, instead of fidgeting on the side on the road. He’d thought long and hard about coming out tonight, what with the recent spate of murders, nasty ones that had the papers gleefully reporting on both the mutilations and shocking desecration of the bodies and the apparently scandalous lifestyles of the prostitutes the killer was targeting. But he was out of money, again, and all he needed was one good punter – and fingers crossed, this guy will be just the one he needs, once he shuts up and gets down to business.

“So what’s a good looking boy like you doing on the game?” Tom asks and Chris snorts with laughter. It’s a crap line, and one he’s heard far too many times from men twice his age, their palms as sweaty as their bald spots, each convinced they’re the star of whatever warped Pretty Woman fantasy is playing in their head.

“Making money,” he says with a grin, playing up the arrogance and easy charm that attracts most of the older, richer businessmen that go for him. He’s the popular boy at school they couldn’t admit they had a crush on; he’s the know-it-all new kid in the office they wish they could grind under their designer shoes; he’s anything and everything they want him to be, and he makes damn sure he looks like the Calvin Klein underwear model they probably wank to once their wives have gone to bed, so that he can make that money, and make as much of it as he can.

This one…seems different though. The sleek black jaguar, tailored suit and cut-glass vowels all scream old money and a cushy life, but this Tom is handsome – _very_ handsome – and seems more the type to hire escorts for charity balls than pick up streetwalkers like Chris. Still, everything about him says _filthy fucking rich_ and that’s all Chris really needs to know.

“Mmm,” Tom says, cocking his head to the side and letting his gaze roam over Chris’s tight t-shirt and tighter jeans. Chris crosses his arms, flexing his biceps as he does so, and gives Tom his best cocky grin. He can play the vulnerable waif when he needs to, but he finds most men prefer the illusion of a challenge – or at least, they enjoy feeling like they’ve beaten him, somehow, when they fuck him, and since he’s the one walking away with the cash, he’s happy to indulge.

He’s been talking to Tom for half an hour now, and he’s wondering why he isn’t making a move or asking his price. Tom seems very interested in Chris, actually in Chris as a person, that is, and not just a willing, warm body. It’s odd, very odd, as Tom clearly fancies him – and really, why the fuck else would he be here at this time of night, striking up conversation with boys ten years younger and tens of thousands of pounds poorer?

“So you just need money?” Tom says and Chris shrugs. What is he after, if not the obvious?

“Who doesn’t?”

“Me,” Tom says, smiling as if he’s just made a great joke. “Do me a favour, Chris. Stay off the streets for a while. They’re not safe, and you’re far too…valuable to be getting into this kind of trouble.”

“That’s my choice,” Chris says, repressing a sigh. A do-gooder? Really?

“Here,” Tom says, slipping a fat wodge of notes into Chris’s hand; when he looks down, he sees the flash of red and realises they’re all fifties. There’s a grand there, easy, way more than he’d make actually make fucking Tom. “To keep you tied over for a while.”

“I don’t – I’m not a charity case,” Chris growls. Whatever other people might think, he’s still got his pride, and while it’s not exactly the career he thought he’d have after uni, he’s proud of the fact he’s working for his money and not just scrounging.

“Then consider it a gift from a friend,” Tom says with a razor-sharp smile, amusement flaring in his eyes. “Or if that doesn’t sit right, down payment on an installation. I’ve paid more for art far less beautiful than you.”

You smooth fucker, Chris thinks, but the flattery sparks a warm glow he doesn’t want to think too closely about. “Thanks,” he says instead, and then, feeling slightly awkward, “I mean it, Tom. You’re very…kind.”

Tom barks a laugh, shockingly loud and raw, and for an instant his polished veneer cracks and splinters, and something wild-eyed and far hungrier looks at Chris from behind bared teeth. A shudder runs over Chris, fear and wonder and arousal shivering over him as every hair on his body lifts in animal response, goosebumps breaking out as he takes an involuntary half-step back.

The shutters come back down the next moment, and Chris is left struggling not to pant, willing his racing heart to calm. Tom is once again perfectly composed, just another punter with more money than sense, and yet – and yet –

“You really are a darling,” Tom says, voice warm and rich, perfectly friendly, and Chris wonders if he imagined the other moment, the other Tom. “I hope I won’t see you around,” he adds, and then he folds himself back into the sleek car and glides away, leaving Chris clutching the wad of bank notes and wondering what the hell just happened.

Since he has the money and a lingering sense of unease, Chris does in fact stay off the streets for a week, and then another, taking some time for himself and doing his best to ignore the continuing reports of bodies found with parts missing. The media keeps talking about a modern Jack the Ripper, and it gains enough attention for the police to come out in force in the better known cruising grounds, making at least a show of caring that the working girls and boys are being cut to pieces by a psycho in the night. But where there’s coppers, there’s no punters, and no punters means no money, and so most of the guys Chris knows move to the more isolated patches, even further from safety.

Chris joins them. Since the boys in blue started patrolling the laybys and flyovers, the killings seem to have stopped, and most think the killer has been frightened off. Besides, he needs money – he’s got debts, alright, made some shit choices, and a thousand quid doesn’t last long these days, not even when you’re clean and sober and doing your best to get by – and he figures at six foot plus and heavy with muscle he’s safer than most of the teenagers and girls out for business. Trade is slow and the punters jumpy, half-convinced someone of Chris’s height and looks is an undercover copper out for an arrest. Still, he does a couple of tricks, enough to make it worth it, and he gets through it by thinking of Tom and his strange smile, picturing his elegance and good looks every time he gets on his knees.

It’s been six weeks since he saw Tom and a week since the last body surfaced when a familiar black jag swings onto Chris’s road and pulls up beside the streetlight Chris is leaning against.

“This isn’t your usual patch,” Tom says as he gets out of the car, stalking closer, and there’s something off about him tonight – menace hangs heavy on him, shadows gathering behind his eyes, and there’s a sharpness in his tone Chris has never heard before.

“Yeah, well, with all the trouble the lately, it got too hot at the usual place,” he says as Tom prowls restlessly around him, circling the pool of lamplight as if it might scorch him. “Thought I might have better luck out here.”

“Aren’t you worried it might be dangerous?” Tom asks, that black humour creeping back in as he runs a hand over his slicked back hair. “There’s a killer on the loose, they say.”

“I think I’ll be alright,” Chris says, watching him carefully. “Most guys would think twice before trying anything with me.”

“Oh, yes,” Tom says, coming to an abrupt halt and staring at Chris intently. “Twice, thrice and once again. Again and again and again. Always thinking. You are something special.”

 Is he on something, Chris wonders, noting his swamped pupils, the beads of sweat forming at his brow and above his lip. He looks desperate, and yet despite the manic intensity, he seems very much in control, too aware to be off his head.

“Are you ok?” Chris asks, reaching out hesitantly, resting his hand lightly on Tom’s shoulder.

Tom doesn’t move and just stares at Chris. “Not really,” he says, whisper quiet. “I didn’t want…”

“Tom?”

“Get in the car,” he says suddenly. Chris hesitates. But he knows Tom’s good for the money and its unlikely he’ll get anyone else tonight…and besides, for once, he actually _wants_ to. He’s been thinking of Tom for weeks now, and there’s no way he’s passing this up, no matter what kind of crazy mood Tom might be in.

So with a smile, Chris gets in the car.

They drive in silence, Tom staring out at the road, the muscle of his jaw twitching frantically, and after a few attempts to draw him out, Chris sits back and just enjoys the warmth and the plush luxury of the saloon, all real wood and real leather, fancy electronic dashboard blinking at him reassuringly as the time ticks by. They drive and drive, winding through the city and its outskirts, until they hit the suburbs and then the countryside: Chris has never been this far out with a punter and it’s setting off all kinds of warning bells. And yet he does nothing and says nothing. He made his choice when he got in the car, and now he’ll wait to see what Tom’s game is.

At last, Tom pulls up in a deserted picnic spot, the layby-cum-car park hidden from the dual carriageway by a copse of trees. It’s pretty much pitch-black and they’ve not passed another car for twenty minutes: they are alone in as close to wilderness as you can get in this part of the world, and Chris knows exactly how much danger he is in.

But as Tom takes his hands from the steering wheel and looks at Chris, the hunger in his face is tempered by a furrowed brow, a haunted confusion in his eyes, and he hesitates, as if he’s not quite sure which script he should be following.

Chris has no such confusion and he leans over to kiss Tom, gently and fondly, the way he used to kiss, before this job, before it was just another commodity for him to sell. Tom’s lips are soft under his, and as his lips part and the kiss deepens, he tastes like whiskey, all smoky undertones and with a burning bite the minute Chris tries to swallow him down.

“Tom,” Chris sighs into his mouth and at the sound of his name Tom stiffens. “Relax, baby, I got this,” Chris murmurs, falling into his patter without thinking, and he mouths lazily at Tom’s jaw and neck as his hands slip to Tom’s fly and draw him out. The tailored trousers are nearly as tight as Chris’s own jeans, and it takes him a moment to realise that Tom isn’t wearing any underwear. Naughty boy, Chris thinks with a mental grin, as he gets his hands on Tom’s swelling cock, not hard yet but just stirring to life at Chris’s touch, thick and long even now.

God, he wants it, wants it enough he doesn’t even bother to mention the money as he bows his head; Tom already paid him, so this is only fair and in all honesty, he’d do this for free, idiot that he is, because it’s been too long since he felt like this, felt his own desire flaring as his lips brush over a twitching cockhead.

“No,” Tom snaps, fists suddenly tight in Chris’s hair, and he yanks Chris’s head up with enough force to have him hissing in pain. “Not that. Not you.”

Ok, Chris thinks, blinking back the prickling tears. “What do you want?”

“I want -” Tom stares at him, and the same unease crawls over Chris at the flatness of his gaze, the strange shifting from cold composure to white-hot intensity, and he licks his suddenly dry lips. He should probably be afraid, but the shudder that passes over him is not born of fear.

“I want to see you naked,” Tom says, eyes like black holes in the gloom of the car, backlit by the neon dash. “Can I see you naked, Chris?”

“Sure,” Chris says, taken aback. He’s never been naked with a punter before – sure, plenty of them like him to get his shirt off, but most aren’t interested in getting his trousers all the way down, so long as they can get at his ass. “I’ll, uh, get in the back?”

“Yes,” Tom says, low and hungry, and so Chris does. It’s awkward, stripping in a car, especially given his height and long legs, but it’s a big car and he manages it easily enough, piling his clothes in the footwell so he can sit with his legs spread, nice and inviting, the leather seat cold against his skin.

Tom climbs back to join him, long limbs contorting like a spider, and Chris shivers as Tom pushes him back, turns him so he is lying flat on the back seat, legs pulled up to allow Tom to settle between them and crouch over Chris like an animal. The tweed of Tom’s suit is rough against his skin, as are the calloused tips of Tom’s fingers as he sweeps them over his body, starting from the soft underneath of his chin, over his adam’s apple, tracing a line down his chest, tapping over his ribs, drawing a sharp slash over his taut stomach and then walking slowly down from his abdomen to his groin, ending just at the base of Chris’s half-hard cock.

Then he does it again. And again. Again and again, feeling the shape of Chris’s bones, digging his fingers hard into his tendons, rubbing the flat of his hand over the softer, fleshier parts, dragging his immaculately manicured nails over Chris’s skin, dividing Chris into sections with fine scratches that don’t quite break the skin: limbs and torso, meat and bone. It’s the strangest kind of foreplay Chris has ever experienced, but he can’t help but flex and buck under the maddening touch, to whimper slightly under the burning focus of Tom’s gaze. He’s being mapped and judged and evaluated, like a prized animal at market, or like a tailor made garment, and despite the lack of attention to his cock, it has him panting as Tom’s gaze flays him alive.

“You’re so beautiful,” Tom says at last, when Chris is mewling under his hands, palms flat on Chris’s thighs, deliberately avoiding Chris’s flushed and dripping cock. “The others…the others were ugly, you know, dirty, vulgar, broken things. They needed…improving. Needed to be made…worthwhile. But you…you’re perfect. Absolutely perfect. There’s nothing I can give you, nothing I can take from you to make you better than you are.”

“You could fuck me,” Chris yelps, patience snapping. “Tom, please!”

“I…” Tom stares down at him and then looks at himself, at where his own cock is just as hard where it curves out of his trousers. He looks mildly surprised at it, and the wet patch it has made on his shirt edges and again, for a moment, he looks utterly confused, as if this isn’t what he expected at all. “I…could,” he says, and it’s as if the idea has only just dawned on him.

“Now?” Chris says hopefully, and he wriggles against Tom so his cock slaps against his belly.

Tom looms over him, expression thoughtful, and Chris can’t figure out what the fuck is going on his head, but he bats his eyelashes and looks up at Tom from under them in what he hopes is a winning manner. “Please?” he says, a little more breathily than he needs to, and Tom’s face splits with a feral grin.

“Yes,” Tom laughs, sounding far more triumphant than he should, given that Chris was a sure thing from the minute he got in the car. But it’s pleasing, none the less, and Chris sighs in relief as Tom finally opens one of the car’s dozen hidden compartments and pulls out a condom. “Do you have any slick?” he asks Chris, crisp and efficient, but the grin tugging at his lips keeps revealing his teeth, and he’s clearly just as keen as Chris now.

“Jean pockets,” Chris says; it’s not unusual for clients who think themselves straight to have a condom but no lube, and he always carries both himself. Tom leans over him to grab the discarded jeans, waistcoat rubbing over Chris’s bare chest, and Chris arches into him, letting the fine wool send a thrill through his nipples and along his cock. Tom’s cock bumps against him and he hears him hiss and then exhale.

“Be good, now,” Tom says, sounding something like a headmaster, but with a predatory edge, and Chris shivers at his voice. Damn, but he wants this; fuck the money, fuck common sense, he just wants to have Tom fuck him.

Tom rips open the lube packet and coats his fingers before pushing Chris’s legs up even higher and rubbing a finger over his hole. Whatever his confusion, his hesitancy was before, it’s gone now, and he works Chris open methodically and steadily, apparently indifferent to Chris’s – for once genuine – cries and moans. He’s not gentle, exactly, but he’s precise, and Chris can relax a little more than usual, confident that he won’t be hurt.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Tom says as he withdraws his fingers, cutting across Chris’s babbling as he opens the condom and puts it on, “but you won’t come until I say so. Do you understand?”

He’s going to come? Most punters couldn’t give a damn about him coming, they just want his ass or mouth, maybe a quick grope of Chris’s cock at best, and that’s fine by him, but yes, he wants to come with Tom, wants to have more involvement than just being fucked by him, and if that means playing a little domination game, that’s fine, that’s more than fine.

“Yes,” Chris says, “yes, yes, I won’t -” and then, before he can even get the last word out, Tom breaches him in one brutal thrust, and Chris’s body convulses around him. Fuck, it’s too much, too quick; he can’t breathe, can’t see, his whole being reduced down to where he is split open, impaled on Tom’s huge cock, and all the breath leaves his body in one long sob.

“That’s it,” Tom says, as Chris’s body bows, and then he shoves in even deeper, hooking Chris’s legs over his shoulder and bringing his weight to bear, so that Chris is bent damn near in half, wedged up against the door, trapped and helpless and dragging in short, sharp breaths.

“I can’t,” he sobs when he has enough for air for it, “Tom, please -” and he doesn’t want him to stop, he just wants a moment to adjust, a moment’s peace in the storm of sensation, it’s been over a week since he was last fucked and forever since he’s been fucked like this, his entire body over-sensitive, wound-tight and he just, he just needs –

“Darling boy,” Tom says, cruel and dark, and he shifts his grip, one hand digging into the meat of Chris’s thigh, hard enough to bruise, leaning forward so he can place the other over Chris’s neck and pin him flat to the back seat. “Shut up.”

Chris tries to moan, but the pressure on his throat increases and it comes out choked, a wet, rasping sound, and Tom’s hips slam forward instantly. He’s strong, much stronger than Chris would have guessed for a slim guy, and there’s nothing but frenzied hunger in him now as he fucks Chris in short, powerful thrusts, one foot on the floor and one knee braced on the car seat so he can use his whole body to drive into Chris, filling him up and breaking him apart with each stroke.

It’s brutal and skittering on the edge of too much, but the knife-edge of pleasure and pain is so fucking sweet that Chris can’t help gasping and moaning, the sounds warped and fractured by the hand on his throat, and he promised, he knows he promised, but if he gets the slightest touch on his cock he’ll come, he won’t be able to help it. It’s a good thing then that Tom ignores where his cock is bouncing against his belly, attention wholly focused on his own pleasure, eyes locked on where Chris’s pulse beats between his fingers, though it’s hard to remember it’s good when Chris’s whole body is coiling tighter and tighter, need a wildfire in his veins.

He’d beg if he could, but he can’t even swallow properly, and so he just lies there and takes it, utterly at Tom’s mercy, nothing but high-pitched squeaks emerging even when Tom twists and the fat head of his cock drags over Chris’s prostate. Chris can feel the tears welling in his eyes and sliding down his cheeks, but he couldn’t give a damn; this is the best fucking lay of his life, and Tom seems thrilled as he bends even closer and laps the salt from Chris’s face.

“Perfect,” he says, thrusts beginning to stutter, panting through clenched teeth, “perfect, perfect, _mine_ -” and then he’s coming, a low, broken sound wrenching from him and he tightens his grip on Chris’s neck too hard – too hard – he can’t _breathe_ –

But then the pressure is gone and the spots in his vision clear and he draws in deep shuddering breaths, keenly aware that Tom is still sheathed within him and of his desperate, agonising need to come.

“Good boy,” Tom says, sounding wrecked, although barely a hair is out of place and he hasn’t even taken off his suit jacket. “That was – good.”

“Please,” Chris says through gritted teeth, “Tom, I’ve got to come, _please_.”

“Demanding, aren’t we,” Tom tsks, but he wraps a fine-boned hand around Chris’s cock and says firmly as he strokes, “you will come now.”

And Chris does – he fucking _howls_ as it crashes over him, body spasming, clenching tightly around Tom’s softening cock as lightning licks over his spine and sizzles through him, orgasm a blessed relief and an overwhelming torrent all at once. It’s so intense he barely registers his own come splashing across his chest, and he’s so dazed in the aftermath he allows Tom to stretch him out and clean him up with supplies from a large duffle bag that mysteriously appears from the boot without so much as a murmur. The thick blanket that Tom wraps him in instead of his clothes is a surprise, but he doesn’t see the point in complaining as he’s bundled back into the front seat: it’s warm and soft, obviously frequently washed, and it’s rather pleasant to snuggle into. He can get dressed in a minute.

But Tom starts the car before he moves, and pulls out on to the still-deserted road without another word, immaculately dressed and pristine once again, his long fingers resting lightly on the steering wheel without any signs of nervousness. Artist’s hands, Chris thinks drowsily, watching the lights overhead flare across Tom’s cheekbones before being swallowed by shadow, and he’s so captivated by Tom it takes him a while to realise they are going the wrong way.

“Where are we going?” Chris says, as it becomes apparent they are heading even further away from the city.

“I’m taking you home,” Tom says calmly, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do after fucking a prostitute. “I’ve decided I’m going to keep you.”

“Keep me?” Chris says. “What, you mean like a mistress?” Do rich people still have ‘kept boys’, he wonders, or is Tom a secret Mills and Boon fan?

“I think you know what I’m saying,” Tom says, grinning his shark grin, and despite his lazy satisfaction, Chris feels a low throb of want and fear in his belly.

He’s alone in a car with a man he barely knows, who is speeding away to God knows where. This might be a bad idea. But then, how often are rich, handsome men interested in an exclusive deal with Chris? What are the chances of anyone else offering him a place to live and who knows what else, just so they can have him on hand for sex – sex that Chris actually wants and enjoys?

Yeah, he’s not _that_ naïve.

“Ok,” he says, smiling back, and when Tom’s hand slides possessively from the gear stick to Chris’s exposed bare leg, he doesn’t flinch away.

This must be his lucky day.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a strange few weeks, really, Chris muses as he pads around Tom’s spotless country manor. To be plucked from the downward spiral his life had become by a handsome stranger, who spirited him away in the night, installed him in his home, paid his debts and offered him a dream lifestyle, all because of a freebie in the back of a car – it’s not anything he ever dreamed of, and yet here he is, slobbing around in designer loungewear, alternating between watching sports on the biggest damn plasma screen he’s ever seen and playing on the new PS4 Tom bought the moment Chris mentioned being interested in it.

It’s a kind of luxury Chris never imagined for himself, and he is thrilled, honestly. It’s just – it’s just that sometimes, he wonders what will become of him, being kept like this. He feels like a pet, pampered and petted and fussed, and left behind each day when its owner goes out into the real world. It’s not a _real_ life, he thinks uncomfortably, lazing around the house, with no job and no prospects of his own; the cleaner comes every morning and the rest of the staff once a week, and so apart from unloading the dishwasher, there’s really nothing for him to do. He’s not _complaining_ , but it’s just odd, as being a happy little househusband wasn’t ever in his life plan.

At least, he’s having a great time with Tom, there’s no question there. The sex is _fantastic_ , and Chris is discovering a taste for all kinds of things he’d never considered before. Sure, it’s all what Tom wants at the moment, but he’s so much more experienced than Chris in these things – for all Chris has a sordid past, his repertoire was pretty standard, a monotonous repetition of blow jobs and quickies – and he’s sure if he ever wanted to do something different, Tom would at least consider it. And well, perhaps Tom isn’t the most affectionate of boyfriends – partners – whatever he is – but he’s being good to Chris, very good.

Tom’s out for most the day, doing whatever it is he does – something to do with investment banking, apparently – and he certainly works hard, being gone a lot of the time and often working late into the night. To stop him from dying of boredom entirely, Tom has given him the run of his entire place, along with the keys to his sports car and the van in the underground garage, a membership card for his exclusive gym, a mind-bogglingly generous monthly stipend, new clothes and a new phone and so on and so on. Chris knows very well how lucky he is, and is quietly amazed at how little Tom wants in return: some company in the evenings, peace when he asks for it, and for Chris to do exactly what he’s told in bed. Beyond this, Chris can do whatever he likes, whenever he likes, with anything and everything he finds in Tom’s luxurious house.

There’s only one exception. The locked door.

It’s in the garage, leading to some kind of storage room: a sealed, extra space under the floorboards of the decadent living room and gleaming kitchen, and this is the only door in the house that Chris cannot open.

“It’s very boring,” Tom had said when he asked about it, idly running his fingers through Chris’s hair. “Just bits and bobs from old jobs. Souvenirs, mostly. Nothing that would interest you. So stay away, hmm, darling?”

Chris had agreed and promptly forgot about it, distracted by the sleek black credit card Tom had presented him with a few minutes later. But the image of the door and its heavy lock remained lurking at the back of his mind, and he’d found himself standing before it a few times when he went to get a car. He’d tried the handle, and even gone so far to throw his weight against it, just to see how sturdy it is.

It’s very sturdy. It won’t give an inch.

He knows he shouldn’t. Tom has given him quite literally everything, and if this is the only thing he asks of him, Chris should have the decency to respect his privacy. But the mystery burns inside him, and with nothing in particular to occupy himself with, the door looms large in his mind.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he spends far too much time searching for the spare key that must surely exist somewhere in the house, wasting every day for a week going through drawers and hunting through cupboards and finding nothing. He spends another week googling lock-picking techniques; he destroys a few wire coathangers trying out what he’s seen in youtube videos, but the door remains stubbornly unbreachable.

Perhaps he would have gotten over it, given time; perhaps he would have simply become bored and found something to obsess over. But not three days after the failure of the latest how-to guide on the internet, Tom is whisked away for a few hours by a private car sent by one of his clients, and when Chris wanders aimlessly into the kitchen about three hours later, he realises that Tom has left his keys by the kettle.

In minutes he’s standing before the door with the keyring in hand, having instantly picked out the one silver key on it he doesn’t recognise.

He opens the door.

Ten minutes later, Chris walks out of the room and carefully locks the door behind him. There’s a vague, distant part of himself that is proud of how well he manages it, given the frantic trembling in his hands, but most of his mind is too busy gibbering in horror at what he’s just seen.

It’s a trophy room. It’s – _souvenirs_ , Tom said, and – Tom is –

He’s not really sure what happens after that. He thinks he showers and eats and moves slowly about the house, as if underwater; he thinks he shouts and screams to himself and he knows, distantly, that he cries. It’s all a grey blur and it’s hours before he really comes back to himself, until he’s aware of where he is and what he’s doing.

Chris finds himself sitting on the sofa in the front lounge, staring at the hallway and the front door, mobile clutched like a rosary in his hands. He needs to call the police. He needs to grab the car keys, _get the fuck out_ and then call the police, report what he’s found and make damn sure the coppers take him seriously, make sure Tom is taken in to custody before finding somewhere to stay, somewhere Tom can’t find him ever again –

Somehow, it’s just about five o’clock already. Tom will be home in half an hour, give or take, unless he’s working late –

Has he ever actually worked late? Chris wonders, a bubbling tide of hysteria rising up in his chest. Does he even go to work? Or is all of it a lie, a cover, for what he really does on the nights when he isn’t curled up in bed with Chris –

He needs to move. He needs to _run_. And yet – and yet he doesn’t. Instead, he remains where he is, staring at the front door, waiting. Just waiting.

It’s half past five on the dot when the door opens and Tom walks in.

“Chris!” he says as he sees him, warm and cheerful. “Have you brought me my pipe and slippers?”

Tom continues making poor jokes as he puts his coat and scarf away, and Chris doesn’t respond to any of it, numb and frozen and still not sure why he’s still here.

“Chris?” Tom says as he comes into the lounge and folds himself into the chair opposite the sofa. “Everything alright?”

“No,” Chris says, dropping his gaze, and he leans forward to put his mobile on the table and to lift the magazine he placed there earlier.

The knife sits on the table between them, sleek and shining and perfectly clean. It was the only thing Chris dared to bring out of that room, gripping the handle through the sleeve of his top, and he’s not entirely sure why he took it at all.

Tom sighs and rubs his face. “Why did you open the door, Chris?”

“I had to know,” he replies shakily. “But I think – I think I already knew. I think I’ve always known, right from that first night.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Of course I’m fucking afraid of you!” Chris roars, anger and fear and nervous energy exploding out of him. “You’re a fucking serial killer! You’re Jack the fucking Ripper!”

“Language,” Tom says disapprovingly. “And there’s no need to be afraid. I would never hurt you.”

“How I am supposed to believe that?” Chris says bitterly. “I don’t know anything about you. Not really.”

“You know me better than anyone else still living,” Tom says, darkly humorous. “How well do you _want_ to know me?”

“I want to know why,” Chris says, struggling for calm. Don’t antagonise him, the small sensible voice in the back of his head whispers. He’s between you and the door. You and the phone. There’s a knife on the goddamned table!

“Why I kill people?” Tom asks. “Or why I haven’t killed you?”

“Both,” Chris says, almost numb to the surreal nature of the conversation.

“I don’t want to tell you about my work,” Tom says slowly, thoughtfully. “You are not a part of it. I would prefer to keep you…separate from it. You really shouldn’t have opened the door, Chris.”

“Separate?” Chris says, latching on to the one thing in that sentence he thinks he understands. “How am I separate? You picked me up that night because you were looking for someone to kill!”

“Yes,” Tom says. “But I didn’t want it to be you. I did warn you, after all. And besides, once I had you, I changed my mind. You are not part of the work. You are special. I’ve never…you have to understand, Chris. I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. You’re the only person I’ve ever…restrained myself with.” Tom smiles at him, and Chris shudders. “Well, perhaps not _restrained_. But you bring out something in me no-one else ever has.”

Chris struggles to make sense of this. So he’s the only person Tom’s ever wanted to fuck instead of kill? Is that what he’s saying? That though Tom thinks about killing him, he chooses to turn that desire into lust? He thinks of all the times he caught Tom looking at him, hungry and yet hesitant, at how Tom paused, sometimes, and eyed Chris’s body in a strangely considering way, making Chris’s hackles rise and his breath catch, without knowing why. He thinks of the times Tom came home early, his polished veneer of sensibility slipping, fraying at the edges; he remembers how Tom would grab him, no matter what he was doing, and drag him bodily to bed, how he would fuck him raw, brutal and cruel and careless of Chris’s wailing. He’d be so different afterwards, almost gentle in taking care of Chris, half-drunk on endorphins, slightly softer and more openly fond, and Chris had _loved_ it. Those times had been Chris’s favourites.

But Chris also remembers sometimes, lying face down in their bed, blissed out and drifting into sated sleep, and being drowsily aware of Tom redressing, still moving too quickly, smiles still too sharp. Sometimes, he would go back out, even though he had no work, vanishing into the growing dark with some vague excuse, and would be gone for hours. He’d come home calmer and cooler, and would pet Chris absently; Chris hadn’t liked that he left, but it had been clear that the sex hadn’t taken the edge off his stress, and had thought perhaps Tom went driving, or to his fancy gym, until he could get whatever was bothering him out of his system.

“Oh, god,” Chris says, horror creeping over him; “when you wanted to kill someone, you’d fuck me instead, but it didn’t always work. Oh, my god. You killed them after you fucked me.”

Tom watches his distress with detached interest, like a child ripping the wings off a fly. The bottomless pools at the centre of his eyes seem to swallow the light whole, and Chris has to look away.

“Yes,” Tom answers after a long, still pause. “I find if I can slake my hunger with you, it helps me regulate my…other appetites. But I can only put off my work for so long.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Chris moans.

“You are a great asset to me,” Tom says. “Think of it this way. I have killed less since I had you to come home to. You have saved many lives over the past few months by diverting my attention.”

Chris stares at him, at his stillness and poise, at the way the light glinting on the knife on the table is reflected in his eyes. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” Tom says, sounding vaguely affronted. “The work I do is to…improve the world. To bring more beauty into it. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Chris. Your dying would be exquisite, yes, but then you would be gone, and the world would be poorer for the lack.”

“But I won’t be beautiful forever,” Chris pushes, fear making him reckless. “What about when I’m older? When I’m fat and wrinkled and balding? Will you kill me then?”

“You will always be beautiful to me,” Tom says. “I love you.”

A terrible, broken laugh leaps from Chris’s throat before he can stop himself, and the frenzied peals echo around the room as he breaks down into hysterics.

“You _love_ me?” he says, gasping for breath. “Do you even know what love is?”

Tom stares at him, and Chris is so hyper-aware, tension coiled like a wire beneath his skin, that he sees the exact moment Tom’s pupils dilate, like a hunting cat, and so he manages not to scream when Tom moves, impossibly fast, skirting round the table to loom over him, crowding Chris’s space and filling his vision.

“I value you more highly than anything else in the world,” Tom says, low and urgent. “I would do anything for you. I will give you anything – anything at all, just ask. I must have you, Chris.”

“Then stop,” Chris forces out, heart hammering. “Please, stop. For me.”

Tom looks at him, head cocked, and then he sighs and straightens, the smooth, cold mask sliding effortlessly back into place.

“No,” he replies, and he sounds faintly regretful, but in a bored, impersonal way, as if Chris were a customer asking a waiter for fillet steak when only sirloin was available. “Ask me something else. I do want you to be happy, but I have certain limits.”

“That’s the only thing that matters!” Chris shouts, unable to keep himself calm. Which is the real Tom, he thinks wildly: the indifferent businessman or the wild-eyed lover? And which is the killer? Who the hell is this man he thought he knew?

“Then you have a choice,” Tom says, still calm and controlled, though a tell-tale muscle in his jaw is throbbing, and Chris can’t seem to stop looking at it. “To stay with me or to leave me.”

“It’s not much of a choice,” Chris says, trying for sarcastic, but his voice wavers and Tom can probably smell the fear on him. “I know too much now. If I leave you, I’m dead. If I stay with you and you change your mind, I’m dead.”

“I want you to live,” Tom says, earnest as a schoolboy, and he’s scaring Chris more now than he has ever has with a hand on his throat. “Chris, please. I do love you, and I thought we were happy together. Aren’t we happy together?”

“I was – I thought -”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Tom says soothingly, bending down so he’s even closer to Chris, his warm breath skittering over Chris’s skin. “You don’t need to know what I do out there, outside this house – it’s all frightfully dull and really nothing to do with you. You can just stay here, and I’ll keep you safe and spoil you rotten, and it will be wonderful, just the two of us.”

“As long as I never open that door again,” Chris says, flinching back against the sofa. “As long as I’m quiet and docile and -”

“Yes,” Tom says, and there’s an edge of steel there now. Chris can’t see his hands, can’t see the table. Can’t see the knife. “It’s a good life for you. Just trust me. I’ll look after you.”

Chris whimpers. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it; he’s a strung out ball of terror and the adrenaline singing along his veins has him shivering, tiny muscle spasms making him jump and twitch, his whole being focused solely on the look in Tom’s eye and where his hands are moving in the edges of his peripheral vision.

He’s so fucking turned on he can barely breathe.

Tom can tell.

I’m just as fucked up as he is, Chris thinks hysterically, as Tom bares his teeth in something akin to a smile. He’s a monster but what am I? Doomed, he thinks, damned, lost, at his mercy –

And then there’s a familiar pressure at his throat, Tom’s palm wrapped around him, not quite constricting his breathing – just a promise, just a tease – and Chris parts his legs on instinct, offers himself up to the monster with the porcelain doll’s face, all to see the flawless mask break and shatter and the darker, wilder thing that lives behind it come roaring out, all teeth and frantic hunger. Tom bears down on him, not so much settling on his lap as pinning him down, using his weight and long limbs to trap Chris in a cage of flesh and bone, and Chris just lets him do it.

He’s scared, he’s so scared, and he _likes_ it, and yes, he knew, knew from the start what Tom was, knew he was a predator, something dangerous, even if he hadn’t quite worked out all the details. And he’d gotten in the car anyway, and he’d wept beneath him, and yes, he was happy to live with him, to keep repeating that moment over and over, instead of looking for easy kisses and soft touches.

“You do trust me, don’t you,” Tom murmurs in his ear as he loosens his tie, shrugs out of his jacket and waistcoat. It’s not a question. “You won’t leave me.”

“Tom,” Chris says, the middle vowel long and needy, and there’s nothing else he can say.

“My darling boy,” Tom says, and he lets go of Chris’s throat so he can manhandle him properly, efficiently manipulating Chris’s body so he’s lying full length on the sofa. Chris lets him do it, limp and unresisting, as Tom prefers him to be. “You really are perfect.”

The knife is at his throat before he even realises Tom’s moved. Chris’s heart is hammering like a rabbit’s, and he’s barely breathing at all, just short, frantic gasps, too fast, too shallow, that aren’t giving him nearly enough oxygen, judging by the way dark spots are starting to dance before his eyes.

“Stay still, sweetheart,” Tom says, and the sharp point moves from his adam’s apple to the hollow of his throat and then lower, and then Chris feels a firm pressure moving from his collarbone to his navel, one perfectly straight line as he holds himself stiff and unmoving.

The pressure lifts and Tom rips his shirt along the cut in one smooth, practised motion. Chris exhales raggedly, stomach muscles jumping, and Tom lays one long-fingered hand on his abdomen for a moment before sliding lower and gripping the waistband of Chris’s sweatpants firmly. Chris freezes again and now he doesn’t dare breathe at all, as Tom lifts the fabric and holds it only a few inches above Chris’s skin. A sick nausea grips him as Tom saws through the thick cotton, knife point perilously close to his groin and his inner thighs, but Tom is careful and precise and very obviously in control of what he is doing.

The sweatpants are pulled off him in tatters, and he can gulp for breath, acutely glad he didn’t bother to put on boxers today, because he doesn’t think he can stand any more of this.

“Tom,” he whispers, but he cannot think of anything to add to it.

“Quiet,” Tom says, cold and hard, not bothering to look up at Chris’s face. Chris obeys.

Tom’s gaze sweeps Chris from head to foot, appreciative and considering, and he taps the knife thoughtfully against his cheek. Chris can smell his own sweat, mingled with the crisp scent of Tom’s expensive cologne, and he shivers, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Tom leans forward, knife still in hand, and kisses him lightly on the forehead: a benediction from a sinner whose madness is bound tight in merino wool and an Italian shirt. He’s half-expecting it, but it’s still terrifying when the knife is once again placed against his jugular; Tom smiles at him, pure predator, but as he swallows he swiftly realises it’s the blunt back pressed again his flushed skin, not the wickedly sharp blade edge.

“Let me see you,” Tom says softly, the fingers of his other hand digging into the soft flesh of Chris’s flank. “Stroke yourself for me.”

Chris doesn’t hesitate. He’s been keeping his hands low and flat on the sofa, and so it’s easy enough to slide one over his hip and to his swollen cock, fingertips just grazing over the soft fabric of Tom’s trousers where he’s kneeling between Chris’s spread legs. Chris rubs his thumb over his cockhead, spreading the slick gathered there, and then shifts his grip lower, teasing at his balls for a moment before gripping himself at the base of his cock.

Tom is silent, watching hungrily, as Chris does as he’s told and begins to stroke himself, his own heartbeat thundering in his ears and against the pressure on his windpipe. His mouth is dry and his heart still racing; he’s hyper-aware of the sound of Tom’s breathing, the rustle of his clothes every time he shifts his weight, the sensation of sweat beading along his brow and the heat prickling over his body.

The tension in the air builds like thunder as his palm glides over his aching erection, slightly too dry and too rough, exactly how he likes it, and Tom’s gaze burns like wildfire as he watches, pupils blown wide and tongue flickering out to press against the bow of his cupid’s curve. Chris is breathing too fast, too shallow again, and its making him lightheaded, and he feels that if it weren’t for the terrible pressure of Tom’s gaze and the huge, heavy knife at his throat he might float away completely, might drift away into a void of nothingness.

He’s so focused on Tom, on the shadows in his eyes and the savage beauty of his mile, despite the flickering spots obscuring his vision, that it comes as something of a surprise when he feels his thighs tensing, body tightening as he approaches orgasm. Once he does notice though, he’s abruptly back in his prison of flesh, desperate and straining, tendons taut and full balls drawn up tight.

“Please,” he chokes, and Tom nods, still silent, still hungry, and Chris moves his hand faster, arm muscles flexing as he jerks himself harder, not daring to buck up or grind his hips, struggling to hold as still as he can as he climbs towards ecstasy, every sinew burning, his body singing with adrenalin, a great, wild rush of sensation that builds and builds until he is there, gasping, at the pinnacle, and can only fall, tumbling down into frenzied, trembling joy as he comes and covers himself with his own seed.

Tom watches him fall apart, eyes shining, and then, as Chris slumps, abruptly surges forward, boxing Chris in with his knees, bringing himself halfway up Chris’s body so he can curl forward and push his groin towards Chris’s face.

“Suck me,” he says, one hand braced by Chris’s head, the other still holding the blade, and Chris shakes off his languor to quickly tug at Tom’s flies until he can free his prominent erection. He has to sit up a little to bring his mouth to it, and he can feel the strain in his neck and shoulders, but Tom moves with him and the knife now rests only lightly on him, giving him more room to breathe.

Tom’s cock is thick and heavy on his tongue, and it is Tom’s own musk he can smell here as he pushes his face forward, buries it between Tom’s thighs as best he can. He laps and sucks and swallows, snatching what breathes he can as he does so, lathing the flesh with his tongue before guiding it further into his mouth, choking a little as the impressive length strikes the back of his throat.

Tom gives a low moan, and despite the tears rising and trickling down Chris’s face, he smiles a little around Tom’s cock and redoubles his efforts. His jaw aches and his shoulder muscles are on fire, but he doesn’t care, just sucks as hard as he can, swallowing around Tom’s cock as he looks up, trying to focus enough to see something of Tom’s face.

“That’s enough,” Tom says and without questioning it, Chris pulls off and licks his swollen lips, looking up in silent enquiry.

“That’s it,” Tom says harshly, “my beautiful boy,” and suddenly the knife is gone, dropped to the side, making the dullest of thuds as it lands on the carpet, and now Tom’s hand moving quickly on his cock, bobbing huge and dripping just in front of Chris’s face. Chris forces himself to keep his eyes open, keeps looking up at Tom’s face, and whatever Tom sees in his expression pleases him, as he grunts gutturally, and his hips jerk forward.

He’s going to come on my face, Chris thinks, the thought sending a spike of pleasure through him; he’s going to mark me, paint me with his come, cover me in _his_ seed instead of my own blood –

And then Tom comes, teeth bared and snarling, his come warm and sticky and splattered across Chris’s face, smearing across his skin and catching in his hair and brows, bitter on the tip of his exposed tongue. Chris blinks and resists the urge to wipe his face, confining himself to licking the worst from around his mouth, and looks up at Tom, awaiting instruction.

Tom is panting heavily, eyes heavy-lidded as he stares down at Chris, and he smiles slowly at the sight of Chris covered in his come. “So beautiful,” he says, sounding richly satisfied, cupping Chris by the chin and tilting his face up even higher. Chris shivers.

They don’t say anything more as Tom slowly and gently wipes the mess from his face and chest with the pieces of Chris’s ruined clothes, and then leans in to kiss him, tongue flickering into Chris’s mouth and making a soft sound of pleasure as he tastes himself there.

Tom slides in beside him, pushing Chris against the sofa back, their bodies pressed together, chest to chest, hips to hip, legs locking together like puzzle pieces. He is warm and familiar against Chris, and he slides his arms around him so he can cradle him close. Chris squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall into Tom’s chest.

“So what now?” he asks quietly as his body unwinds and the whipcord tension drains away.

“Nothing changes,” Tom replies. “As you said, you’ve always known. So we simply go on being happy. You are happy, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Chris says, voice cracking. “God help me, I am. I – I think I love you.”

“I’m so happy to hear you say that,” Tom replies, sounding pleased. “I’m so glad we can move on from this…brief unpleasantness.”

“Just promise me one thing,” Chris says quietly, face pressed to Tom’s collarbone, hand placed over Tom’s heartbeat. “If you ever change your mind – if you do decide to kill me – make it quick. And don’t – I don’t want to know it’s happening. I don’t want to know I was wrong about you.”

“I promise,” Tom says, his voice like velvet above Chris’s head. “You won’t ever see me coming.”

 

 

_The Human Dress, is forged Iron_

_The Human Form, a fiery Forge._

_The Human Face, a Furnace seal'd_

_The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge._

\- A Divine Image, William Blake

 

 


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